My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  He turned to look at her now, the gray-green eyes focusing on her with an intensity that was almost more uncomfortable than his profound silence had been. “Oh, but you have. To hear your voice, to lose myself in the music, even for a little while, proves to me that there is still beauty left in the world, there is still life ...” Christian paused and drew a deep, steadying breath. “I apologize. It is the height of rudeness to intrude on someone’s private time as I have intruded on your practice sessions. To then burden them with one’s problems is adding insult to injury. I have no excuse for it except that your music wipes away some of the darkness of it all. Lavinia is right; I have no notion how to behave in polite society anymore.” He rose to go.

  “No, please, sit down. I do not mind in the least. It is just that I have so little knowledge of these things that I can offer nothing except my deepest sympathy, but that seems so trivial in the face of what you have experienced. I cannot conceive of what it must be like to endure what you must have endured. I cannot imagine how one finds the courage to face such things.”

  Christian smiled grimly. “One arrives at such things by degrees, beginning as I began, with a noble idea; the idea that by joining up I could do something to stop the French from conquering all of Europe, that I could stop Napoleon and the war he was bringing to much of the world and help bring back prosperity to England and the Continent. Then, too, it is a very fine thing to join a bunch of lively, adventurous fellows who share the same sentiments. And there is the challenge of testing one’s skills against the enemy. There is even the excitement of the charge, of men and horses risking all and plunging into battle. It is only afterwards, after a dozen charges and countless dead and wounded that the doubts set in. At first the anger against those who have killed one’s friends and comrades is enough to keep one going, but sooner or later, there is just the resignation and the sorrow of it all for everyone, friend and foe alike.”

  “But you did not give up.”

  “No, I did not give up because by then I truly understood why I was fighting. It was not to stop the French or Napoleon, but to stop the battles and skirmishes, to stop the war, to bring peace to us all, to let the farmers in Spain and elsewhere rebuild their ruined villages and to return to their peaceful existences.”

  “And you did,” she replied softly.

  Christian looked at her in some surprise. The blue eyes that gazed steadily back at him were filled with compassion and understanding. Somehow, talking to her had helped him put it all into perspective. All those lives were lost, but they had not been wasted. He felt as though the wounds that were his memories of battle were beginning to heal at last. They were still painful, but they were not the raw, open wounds that had been, now they were more like a dull ache. “And I did,” he reiterated slowly. He looked at her intently for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” It was Isobel’s turn to look surprised.

  “For listening. Most people simply dismiss such things. They want their heroes, but they do not want to hear what made them heroes. War simply is not a topic for polite conversation. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “But then, I have never been one to confine myself to topics of polite conversation.”

  “I find polite conversation rather dull myself. One never learns anything of interest from polite conversation.”

  “How very true. You are most wise, mademoiselle.”

  “Perhaps it is because I have had a surfeit of conversations myself. I am tired of listening to people who discuss anything but the problems that are truly troubling them, people who talk in order to forget or to avoid confronting things too painful to confront.”

  Her stormy expression and the passion throbbing in Isobel’s voice were as eloquent as words. So she did understand a great deal of what he was feeling. “Then I must be a refreshing change for you, mademoiselle.” The teasing note had crept back into Christian’s voice.

  “Well, a change, at any rate.” The dimple flashed again at the corner of her mouth. She was about to continue when the sound of the duchess’s voice in the hallway made her glance at the clock on the mantel. “Gracious, look at the time. I must be going.”

  Before Christian could reply, she had gathered up her music from the pianoforte, snatched up her bonnet and pelisse, and hastily put them on. “I have tarried here far too long. Papa will be wondering what has become of me,” she explained as she forced the ribbons of her bonnet into a rather bedraggled-looking bow. She gave it a final tug and whisked out door, but not before Lavinia saw her and paused in her conversation with Grinstead to ask after her daughter’s progress. Isobel responded favorably enough, but her answer was uncharacteristically brusque and she seemed so preoccupied as to make the duchess wonder what had occurred to ruffle the young lady’s coolly elegant air.

  Lavinia peeked through the door of the music room. “Christian?” She fixed her brother-in-law with a suspicious frown. “You have not been plaguing Mademoiselle Isobel, have you?”

  “I, plague someone?” He raised one eyebrow in mock dismay. “How can you be so unkind? I never try to plague people; it is far too fatiguing.”

  “Christian!” Lavinia’s tone descended from suspicious to threatening. “I will not have you vexing Mademoiselle Isobel. She is far too quiet and self-effacing as it is without your alarming her.”

  “Mademoiselle Isobel, quiet? Surely we are not talking of the same person. Why, she very nearly took my head off for being a barbaric intruder the first time we met. And she very nearly did this time as well.”

  The grin that accompanied this speech was so disarming that Lavinia chuckled in spite of herself. “It is too bad of you, Christian. Must you pursue every young woman that crosses your path? Isobel’s life is difficult enough without adding you to its complications.”

  “I? A complication? You are being most unfair, Lavvy, when you know I always do my best to help people with problems in their lives, especially the pretty ones.”

  “You are incorrigible, Christian, and yes, that is what I am afraid of,” she responded darkly. “Now, be off with you, you scamp. I must see how the girls are doing with the rest of their lessons.” And shaking her head over him, Lavinia gathered up her skirts and headed up the stairs toward the schoolroom. On the first landing, and out of sight of her brother-in-law’s sharp eyes, she paused, allowing herself to indulge in the tiniest smile. So that was the way the wind blew, was it? Christian truly was interested in the beautiful young Frenchwoman, for he never would have run the risk of encountering his elder brother without some strong inducement.

  While it was true that at this particular moment Albert was most likely to be found deep in political discussion with his cronies at White’s, one could never be certain when he would return home and Lavinia was familiar enough with the inevitable friction between the two brothers to know that Christian tried to keep his contact with Albert to a minimum. With the best of intentions, her husband never failed to rub his younger brother the wrong way by prosing on, as he insisted on doing whenever Christian made his appearance, about family history and family duty in a way that was bound to set his adventurous sibling’s back up. Lavinia had remonstrated with her husband time and again, but to no avail for the inevitable response was No harm in the lad? Hmmph. No harm in someone who indulges in every adventurous whim without a thought, or anyone but himself. Someone who risks his neck without the least consideration for the noble lineage he is risking along with it. No Lavinia, you are too soft on the lad. Someone must make him see his duty and apparently I am the only one around here who understands what that duty is.

  It was in vain that Lavvy pointed out that a thirty-year-old man who had spent the last five years commanding a cavalry regiment in the Peninsula was hardly a lad and that he was equally unlikely to listen to a civilian two years his senior who prosed on about duty and responsibility. Eventually she simply held her tongue and did her best to insert herself between the two of them at family gatherings and tried to kee
p any conversation to unexceptionable topics whenever they were together.

  At any rate, it did appear, from her discovering him twice in the music room at Warminster House, that Christian was taking an interest in Mademoiselle Isobel. While it was true, as Lavinia had accused him, that he was always attracted by a pretty face and often inclined to flirt with one, he was equally protective of his bachelor status and therefore, rarely, if ever, exhibited any serious interest in any particular young woman for fear of having his name linked with hers. Christian’s apparent seeking out of Mademoiselle Isobel was quite a departure from his usual behavior, which was to involve himself in conversation with a young lady once and ignore her completely the next time he encountered her. Lavinia’s curiosity was thoroughly piqued and she resolved to pass by the music room rather more frequently now that she knew he was a regular visitor.

  Chapter 9

  However, Christian, veteran campaigner that he was, had not missed the speculative gleam in his sister-in-law’s eye as she had chided him for plaguing Mademoiselle Isobel, and he was not about to furnish her with further reasons for conjecture. He was remarkably circumspect in his movements for the next few days and though he was longing to continue his conversations with the lovely instructress, he confined his visits to Grosvenor Square to a time when he was sure she would not be there, such as the early hours in the morning when his nieces could be found mounted on their ponies and heading toward the park for their daily riding lessons.

  “Uncle Christian, Uncle Christian!” Gussie had shouted at him with unladylike glee the first morning he had appeared just as the groom was bringing around their ponies. “Come ride with us in the park. You will not believe how well I can make Prince mind me.”

  “Gussie, you must not screech like some heathen and it is not at all ladylike to boast about how well you ride. You sound like a common braggart,” her sister chided.

  “But it is true. I do make Prince mind me, better than you make Titania mind you,” Gussie protested.

  Sophia did not deign to reply to such an unworthy remark, turning instead to smile graciously at the groom as he helped her mount.

  Christian winked at the infuriated Gussie. “Never mind, my girl. Come along, then and let us see if you can live up to your claims.”

  “I can. I can.” Gussie muttered under her breath as, casting a defiant look at her elder sister, she scrambled onto her pony’s back without any assistance.

  She was as good as her word, and when they had reached the park, she put Prince through his paces with the skill of a natural-born horsewoman.

  “Very good, Gussie, most impressive, but do not become so confident that you are careless. A horse can sense inattention in an instant and you could find yourself on the ground before you knew what happened.”

  “Oh Prince would never do such a thing. He is so tame he would not hurt a fly.”

  “Prince might not, but you are not going to be riding Prince all your life. From what I have seen of you, young lady, you will be wanting to test yourself soon enough on some prime bit of blood with a temper to match.”

  “Like your Ajax?” The little girl glanced at him provocatively.

  Christian chuckled. “I am too anxious to keep Ajax on his best behavior to hand him over to a neck-or-nothing rider like you. Ajax has lived a long and exhausting life and he deserves a peaceful old age. But perhaps we can find another horse for you to try.”

  “Will you? Will you? Promise?”

  “Yes, but only if you apply yourself to your other lessons with as much diligence as you do to horseback riding. I hope you listen to all that Mademoiselle Isobel tells you and that you practice faithfully.”

  Gussie fell silent, chewing self-consciously on a wisp of blond hair that had escaped from her bonnet.

  “No she does not. She would rather ask Mademoiselle about the revolution than learn French or music,” Gussie’s older sister volunteered as she trotted up sedately to join them.

  “You must not plague Mademoiselle Isobel,” Christian added. “Undoubtedly her life is difficult enough without a recalcitrant pupil to worry or to beg tales from her that might upset her.”

  “But she knows ever so many people who have such stories to tell. She is friendly with Monsieur who is brother to the king who was put to death on the guillotine. When I asked her ‘Monsieur who?’ She told me that he is simply called Monsieur. He used to be called the Comte d’Artois, but when his brother the king was killed, the king’s other brother, the Comte de Provence who used to be called Monsieur, became king and now the Comte d’Artois is called Monsieur. It is all very complicated. I asked her if she knew Marie Antoinette, but she said no, she had been too young. She had seen her once but that is all and she does not remember anything more about her except that she was pretty and laughed a lot. She did not even know who she was, but her mother told her it was the queen.”

  “Gussie, you must not ask her about King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.” Sophia was aghast.

  “Why not? I think it is very interesting that they were put in prison and that they had their heads chopped off by the guillotine.”

  “But I am sure that Mademoiselle Isobel does not, and I am sure it makes her very sad to have lost all her friends,” Sophia protested.

  “But she has not lost all her friends. Lots of them are still alive and they live here in London. She often complains about all the parties she must attend with her papa.” Gussie shot a triumphant look at her sister.

  “Then she must live rather near these friends if she sees them so often,” Christian probed ever so delicately.

  “I think that she lives near Monsieur for she mentioned her father’s calling on him and I know that they do not keep a carriage so he must have walked and, since I know her father is an old man, he must not have had to walk far.” Gussie, secure in her superior knowledge, directed a condescending smirk at Sophia.

  “Ah, near Baker Street, then?”

  But the name meant nothing to Gussie.

  “And she said they also moved from the country to their house in London when her mother died so they could be near her father’s friends and near their church.” Sophia was not about to be outdone by her younger sister.

  Christian racked his brains trying to think of churches serving those of the Catholic faith that were to be found in London, but could come up with none except the chapels attached to embassies of the foreign powers—the Sardinian in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and the Spanish in Manchester Square. He had heard that the Duc de Berri lived in Manchester Street and it seemed likely enough that other émigrés must live near someone so central to the court as the Duc de Berri, and, if Gussie was correct, the Comte d’Artois was not far away in Baker Street.

  A sly smile hovered around Christian’s mouth. Manchester Square and Manchester Street were not in his daily routine, which began with a ride in the park usually followed by a peek in at Tattersall’s to see the latest in horseflesh that was for sale, regular sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s, shooting at Manton’s, or the occasional visit to Signor Angelo’s for a little swordplay, and finishing up with a congenial bottle or two with acquaintances at Brooks’s or an evening at the opera. However, he did have friends now stationed in the Portman Square barracks that he had not seen in some time. He might look in on them and saunter home with a little detour by way of Baker Street and Manchester Square, some time in the early afternoon when he might catch a glimpse of a tall, slender woman with music under her arm.

  The first morning riding with his nieces had proven to be so instructive that Christian often joined them as they were setting off from Warminster House. And equally often he accompanied them home again, stopping to exchange a few words with their mother as she returned from visiting her favorite Bond Street establishments.

  In fact, he was a frequent-enough visitor that his brother, never one to notice anything that was not directly under his nose, remarked on it one evening as he and his wife were driving back from Lady Daventry’s so
iree. Albert had allowed himself to be dragged along because Lord Daventry, aside from being the owner of several hugely prosperous coal mines, was a man of some political influence in the north who had not yet allied himself with any particular faction in Parliament. Albert, having spoken at great length with his lordship that evening, had gotten him to agree to meet the next day with his closest political cronies. Encouraged by this success, and having downed more than his usual quantity of port, he was in an expansive mood as they rolled along toward Grosvenor Square. “Grinstead tells me that Christian is a frequent visitor lately, not that I have seen him.”

  Lavinia smiled in the darkness at the pettish note in her husband’s voice. Different though the brothers were and critical though he might be of Christian, he still longed to be sought out and consulted by him. “But, my dear, you are so often from home that it is unlikely that anyone who calls on you there would find you.”

  Albert considered this a minute before replying. “What you say is true. Perhaps he has come to his senses at last and is seeing the responsibilities that lie before him. I had almost given up believing that he would come round, but he is a Hatherleigh after all, even if he has not acted like one until now. It is too bad that he has missed me. I shall make it a point to be there more often so that I may offer him some direction.”

  “But, Albert, I do not think that you are necessarily the reason for his visits,” Lavinia ventured gently.

  “Nonsense. Why else would he call at Warminster House?”

  “Well, he has been riding a good deal with Sophia and Gussie.”

  “Hmph. Child’s play. A man who is as fine a horseman as Christian does not ride with children by choice. Mark my words he has something else on his mind.”

  “I quite agree with you there, dear.”

  “Any idiot can see that, Lavinia. He has other interests on his mind besides two nieces who are more rambunctious than they should be. As I said, I shall make it a point to be around the next time.”